The Ties That Bind Us All
by Ayra Sei Ethari
Summary: Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, and hate leads to suffering – but through the Force, the fear, anger, hate, and suffering of Carissa of Silima can all also lead to the greatest Jedi ever to live: Anakin Skywalker.
1. Prologue

**_The Ties That Bind Us All_**

_Summary:_ The past and the present; fear and hope; love and hate – all are bound by the ties of one thing . . . the Force. Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, and hate leads to suffering – but through the Force, the fear, anger, hate, and suffering of Carissa of Silima can all also lead to the greatest Jedi ever to live – Anakin Skywalker.

_Rating:_ K (nothing really bad; just perhaps a little confusing)

_Genre:_ mystery ; angst

_Canon Character(s):_ Jedi Padawan Thame Cerulian ; Jedi Master Unskette ; Shmi Skywalker ; Anakin Skywalker

_OC Character(s):_ Carissa of Silima ; Garen Toki (former Jedi Initiate) ; Ewan Skywalker

_Note:_ This fic will trace simultaneous lines between the descent that led to Anakin Skywalker, like who he was and what he did. On one side, I will trace the bloodline that led to Anakin; on the other, I will trace the Padawan-Master relationships that led to Anakin. But that's really all I will say before I give the entire plot away. . .

* * *

**_Prologue_**

The famed Jedi saying that the Jedi Order drills into every single Jedi that passes through the Jedi Temple on Coruscant on their journey on the Jedi path says: Fear leads to anger; anger leads to hate; hate leads to suffering. In other words, the Jedi are taught to hold back fear, throw away hate, and _always_ suppress love, for love is the worst bane of the Jedi.

It can spur a Jedi to fear, to anger, to hate, and then to suffering. It can cause destruction of the likes no one can imagine. It can lead to unspeakable agony, for all involved, and yet in the end accomplish . . . nothing.

But love can also be the Jedi's greatest hope.

For love can easily cause one to sacrifice everything for another as much as it can cause one to destroy everything.

Anakin Skywalker never, perhaps, understood how to control his emotions. He didn't understand why he had to suppress his emotions, to rein them in, to control them to the highest degree of rigidity.

But perhaps that is also understandable.

For I too never knew how to control my emotions. I couldn't understand how those Jedi could just stand there calmly and take everything in and do . . . well . . . nothing.

I hated them.

I hated the Jedi.

I hated them with everything I had in me – everything they were, everything they stood for, everything they became.

And I swore that one day, they would feel the burning anguish I had felt because of them. Perhaps not by my own hand, but by the hand of one of my descendants, I swore that the Jedi would one day fall. The attack would be swift, lethal, and all consuming, as a predator of the skies that descends upon an animal of prey on the ground. My line would _own_ the skies, and the Jedi could crumble like dust beneath their feet.

Why, you ask? Why did I hate them so much?

Well, here is my answer: _Because they took everything that meant anything to me from me._

For my name was Carissa of Silima, and I was the great-great-great grandmother of the worst enemy and greatest savior of the Jedi Order ever, perhaps, to exist in the entire universe – Anakin Skywalker. And it was through my existence and my hatred for the Jedi Order that the Skywalker line began.

This is my story.


	2. Fear Leads to Anger

**_Fear Leads to Anger_**

The first part of the saying intones that fear leads to anger.

I, Carissa of Silima, can vouch for its authenticity.

When I was captured by the Morical, I felt fear – and in time, as I languished in their tortuous care, that fear turned into overpowering anger.

* * *

Our tribes, the Silima and the Morical, had been fighting for centuries, if not more. No one could remember how, why, or when it had started – only that it continued in a vicious cycle of blood, revenge, and death. Everyone had some sort of grievance that was unable to be fulfilled, for if someone close to you had been killed, you be honor-bound to murder the killer of that person, the relatives in the other tribe would be honor-bound to kill you for murdering the killer of your friend, and then your relatives would be honor-bound to kill them for killing you for killing the murderer of your friend – and on and on the cycle went.

It was ridiculous.

But it had been going on for generations, and it was _still_ going, in fact, even with the Jedi here.

I had met them already; when the Jedi had come demanding a truce so that a treaty could be put in place once and for all, my father and I had been presented to them. The older one, the Master, was Jedi Master Unskette; the younger, an apprentice called Thame Cerulian.

They seemed . . . different. Restrained, in a way, that people weren't supposed to be. And certainly powerful, for they had brought the Morical to the negotiating table, and the Morical only respected power.

The fighting had supposedly ceased for now, in accordance with the Jedi's demands.

Usually, we would not allow outsiders to dictate the actions of our people, but the Jedi were a special case. There were only two here, but it was well-known across the galaxy that the first two were backed by the other two hundred in the Temple on Coruscant, and then the rest of the two thousand spread across the galaxy. Challenging them was not an option; not with the full might of the Jedi Temple and the Galactic Senate behind the two.

For three days, they had been arguing – but for three days, there hadn't been a single battle or injury between us.

"Your Highness?"

I turned to see one of my father's advisors standing there.

"Your Highness, are you going to present yourself at the negotiations?" he asked respectively. "I could always make your excuses if you will not."

It was an easy decision. On one hand, I could stay behind and listen as the Jedi attempted to make peace between the Morical and the Silima. On the other, I could plead illness or boredom or practically anything and not go.

"I will not go. Thank you, advisor," I said.

He bowed and left.

I wandered through the camp, seeing the wariness my people felt. We were all uneasy, with Morical leaders in our camp or even when our leaders went to their camp. The Jedi's presence was not enough to quell that uneasiness. Not after centuries and centuries of fighting and bloodshed between us. Not even close.

I exchanged trivial conversations as I walked; it was easy, effortless. My father always said I would be a good leader when I grew up. I got along with the people easily.

Well, _my_ people.

I had already fought my share of Morical warriors, and if this peace treaty didn't go through – which everyone though wouldn't – then I'd fight some more. Probably until my death, actually, as that was what had happened to all my predecessors, even the ones who hadn't ended up leading the Silima tribe because they had a sibling. But they fought too, and died too.

I had no siblings. It was why my father was so protective of me. With my mother dead, there would be no more heirs. And if I died . . . well, the Silima tribe would have some serious issues.

"Princess Carissa?"

I finished my conversation before turning to the speaker. I knew who it was, though; I could never mistake that clipped Coruscanti accent.

"Yes, Master Jedi?" I asked.

The boy smiled nervously, startling me. I had thought it was the Master, for the voice had sounded so confident and in control, and I had never heard the Padawan Learner, as the apprentices were called, speak.

He wasn't much older than me, maybe nineteen or twenty years old at most. A long braid fell on his right shoulder, and consisted of blonde hair that contrasted sharply with the neon-colored beads of red and green and blue that were woven in among the blond strands. His brown eyes were clear and honest, but they carried the hint of power that all leaders had – the kind that said, _I'm nice, but don't cross me because you don't want to know how mean I can be_. His Jedi robes were simple and almost homespun, but the utility belt and sleek metal hilt of a lightsaber warned away those who thought him a simpleton. I supposed that some of the girls in the tribe might find him very handsome, but to me, he was plain and simple and – since being in the Order meant forfeiting all stations, inheritance, and everything else of birth – slightly below me in certain ways. His name didn't help my opinion, for it was offworlderish in every way.

"Actually, Your Highness, I am just a Jedi apprentice," he explained cautiously. "My name is Padawan Thame Cerulian."

"My apologies; I thought you were Master Unskette."

He shook his head. "The negotiations are still underway, Your Highness," he said, by way of explanation. "Will you come with me please?"

It was a simple request, and nicely phrased; but it carried the underlying assumption that I would follow his commands. But he was a boy, and I was the heiress to the entire Silima tribe, and so, naturally, I resisted.

"And why? My advisors have already made my excuses; to come would confuse all involved."

"I understand that you do not wish to be in the company of the Morical," he said evenly, holding his own ground. "But it cannot be helped. Especially if you want peace, Your Highness. You must set the example you want your people, and thus your enemies, to follow."

"Fine words for one who has never known rivalry like our tribes have."

"Your Highness, please; argument gets us nowhere. Please, come with me. I promise there will be no consequences."

He sounded so sure about it that I was half-tempted to believe him.

But then I remembered a particular incident in my youth – the night raid that had claimed my mother's life and nearly taken mine along with it. I still bore the scars too.

_Never turn your back on them, never give up when fighting them, never let them have the advantage over you, and never allow the memories of those we have lost to them fade in your memory._

My mother's last lesson to me.

But for the sake of peace, I relented and went against my better sense.

Padawan Cerulian seemed relieved. I guessed that he hadn't done many of these kinds of peace-keeping missions.

So I asked.

He shook his head. "My Master and I are usually distributed to deal with more . . . ah . . . aggressive disturbances of the peace," he replied. "But in order to be a fully-fledged Jedi, I must know of the maintenance of peace through diplomacy as well as I know the enforcement of it by war, and so here we are."

I shot him a sharp look. He spoke with such a light tone. . .

"And the fact that you're always running around keeping the peace never dissuades you, never drags you down?"

He laughed. He _laughed_.

"No, of course not," he shot back cheerfully. "I'm a Jedi. We all have to learn to deal with it. Besides, it's not like I can just _walk out_ or something."

"And why not?" I forged ahead before he could change the subject again. "You were given to the Order as a baby, if memory serves; you didn't choose the Jedi. And the restrictions are enormous and the journey arduous – why don't you ever take a break and live a real life?"

Padawan Cerulian gave me a look like I was crazy. "Why would I do that? This is my life."

I concluded he _was_ crazy. "So you'd die for peace?"

"As easily as you'd die for protecting your people," he retorted evenly. He swept back the tent flap with a flourish. "Your Highness."

I entered and made my way to sit next to my own group of advisors, behind my father. The second I sat down, I sent my bodyguard a significant look; the next, I felt the cold metal of a knife slid into my palm. I had come unarmed, and I hated being in that condition around Morical. So, discretely, I folded my hands in my lap and concealed the knife, but I knew that if it came to fighting, it would be just as deadly as the sword belted on my father's hip.

The Jedi, of course, had tried to convince us to leave the weapons at the door, but we both had lived and fought and lost too long and too much to ever agree to that sort of thing.

Master Unskette was a skillful negotiator; I had to admit that.

But the Jedi didn't understand. They just didn't. And therefore, it was nearly impossible for the Jedi to placate one side without offending the other.

And despite Padawan Cerulian's assertions, I did feel nervous in the Morical's presence.

I could feel their eyes on me the entire time, and it made me even more nervous. Especially since their prince was the main one eyeing me. By the time the meeting was over, my hand was white and almost completely conformed to the hilt because I was clutching it so tightly in nervousness. Even my advisors were giving me concerned looks, which I ignored.

When the meeting was called to an end, I sheathed the knife and practically ran from the tent. I just couldn't contain it any longer. I was just way too nervous.

I finally collapsed near my mother's favorite oasis, not too far from the center of camp. But as it was my mother's favorite, and my father and I often came here, the people generally stayed away out of respect.

I dipped my hand in the calm water, watching the ripples, and felt my nervousness begin to ease. At least a little. Finally, when it was mostly gone, I drew my hand out, shook it dry, and stood.

"Well, well, well, what have we here?"

I took a step back, my hand going immediately for my knife –

It wasn't there.

The Morical prince grinned and clicked his fingers. One of his men approached from the circle they had formed around me and tossed a knife – _my_ knife – to him.

"Real pretty, princess. And – ouch – quite sharp. But I wonder . . . have you ever used it properly?" he taunted.

"Go away," I spat. "Do not trespass on sacred ground."

"Sacred?" The prince laughed. "Indeed."

"_Go away._"

But my voice trembled in the last syllable, for I felt fear now, and it coursed through my veins even stronger than it had in the meeting. My advisors were far away, I had no weapon, and I was outnumbered ten-to-one – eleven-to-one, if I counted the prince himself.

"I don't think so."

He waved a lazy hand, not even looking at me, and a second too late, I realized it was a signal.

Hands pinned my arms behind me, accompanied by the jeers of the men whose filthy hands were pushing me to the ground. I snarled and fought back with everything I had, but sometimes, there is just too many – and I was facing that now. I bit, I scratched, I wriggled, but it wasn't enough. And sooner or later, despite the cuts and bruises, I ran out of energy.

"You foul little backstabber," I spat at him, panting.

He grinned. "I can get much worse, if you like, and you can add a few more interesting words to your own title, princess." He nodded to his men. "You know what to do."

"You – "

Then there was the strangest prick against my neck, and my whole world went black.

* * *

For days I languished in the cell they had put me in. At first I struggled, spitting at anyone came near me and wrestling against the chains that bound my arms and legs. But eventually, without that much food or water or light, my struggles died down to crying. I couldn't free myself.

With each day, I grew more fearful. The men here were vile and low, even to their own women; I shuddered to think of what they would do to me.

The prince himself visited me, finally, on the fourth day.

"Ah, princess, I think this actually becomes you," he greeted.

I didn't respond.

"Oh, don't be angry. . . I simply had to do what was best for my people," he said seriously. "We need the advantage to get the land and water we need. The Jedi haven't caved yet, but they will."

"If you're lucky, when they rescue me, I might consider putting a request for your death to be short," I snarled back.

He chuckled. "So feisty." He reached out and ran his finger along my chin. "And so pretty. . . My, my, I never would have thought a daughter of the Silima could actually _be_ pretty. What a wonder indeed, a rare flower in the desert of Silima."

"Then you're the snake," I spat.

He withdrew his hand, and his face grew stormy as he grabbed my chin and practically shoved his face in mine.

"Seeing as _I _am your best chance for surviving this," he hissed, his breath putrid against my face, "I would show a little more respect, girl. You know nothing. The Jedi haven't even asked for your return yet, you know. . . Maybe they don't even care. I could keep you here forevermore, my prisoner, and no one would ever find you. Ever."

"You need to wash out your mouth," I taunted.

The prince's eyes darkened, and something primal flashed within them, something that told me I had crossed the line. Not a line, _the_ line.

With a growl, he yanked me upright and shoved me back violently. I fell back and hit my head on the ground, stunned, as he knelt and fiddled with his pants before producing a key and starting to rearrange the chains. I tried to kick, but he hit me so hard I saw stars.

But when I heard the zipper of his pants go down, my fear turned into full-blown panic.

"Leave me alone!"

He didn't listen, of course.

* * *

The Jedi never rescued me in the whole course of 44 days. And the torture only got worse, although he never allowed his men to go past beating me in terms of touching. Only he was the one to humiliate me in the worst way possible.

They let me go when they realized the Jedi weren't caving.

By then, of course, it was too late.

My father had, in the time I was gone, remarried another woman, one sure to produce heirs. He didn't even look at me.

I was dismissed from the tribe, cast out, exiled, and without even a glimmer of hope for a second chance. They even went and burned the mark of an exile on my palms, a mark that was only used for the worst criminals and scum. It was the only way I found out that they would never even consider taking me back into the Silima.

The Jedi didn't even apologize. Master Unskette insisted that had I had been rescued, it would have shown favoritism to the Silima. So they hadn't even tried.

I spent three days in the desert before I collapsed.

When I woke up, the doctors at the hospital wing told me I had been in a coma from severe trauma, mental and physical, for several months. And I was pregnant, with no doubt to the father. It was too late for any action to be taken to stop the pregnancy.

I never forgave the prince, but I put most of the blame at the feet of the Jedi.

They had had chance to create peace, and they claimed they had. But at the cost of my life. They hadn't tried to rescue me, hadn't enforced the peace, and certainly had lost my opinion of them forevermore.

I married a few years later. One of the doctors was kind enough to take in a single, young, and bewildered mother and her rambunctious baby son, and eventually, I trusted him enough to entrust him with my life. But never my body; I never trusted anyone with that ever again, not even the doctors that had saved me.

And when the Jedi came calling for my Force-sensitive son, I didn't even open the door.

I named my son "Ewan". He was young, true, but he would be the beginning of the warriors I would train to take my revenge on the Jedi one day. He would be my warrior, my son, and I had no doubt of that.

* * *

My fear of the Jedi – of their powers, of their authority, of their duty in the Republic – died with the birth of my son.

My anger of Jedi, on the other hand, and especially my anger for that cursed Jedi Padawan Thame Cerulian who had argued so successfully against any rescue effort for me, burned until my death, and long beyond that.

Fear leads to anger.

The Jedi said it themselves, after all.


	3. Anger Leads to Hate

**_Anger Leads to Hate_**

The second part of the saying intones that anger leads to hate.

I, Ewan Skywalker, son of Carissa of Silima, can vouch for its authenticity.

When I was finally told the story about why I never seemed to fit in with my father and my mother never seemed to want any more children to give me brothers and sisters, I felt anger – and in time, my anger against the Jedi for the wrongs they had committed against my mother turned into hate.

* * *

I was nine years old when I finally learned the truth.

I had always felt out of place, in my school, in my town, and even in my family. My dark blonde hair and blue eyes was unusual, strange, different . . . and not in a good way. And I certainly didn't resemble my parents, especially my father. All in all, I got a lot of teasing for it, from almost everyone except my family.

My name didn't help either.

I knew it meant "warrior" but the kids around town didn't believe it. All I got for it was teasing.

Finally one day, frustrated and annoyed and fed-up, I marched up to my mother and demanded to know if there was anything she hadn't been telling me.

And to my great surprise, instead of waving me off and laughing as she usually did, this time she got to her feet, shot my father a significant look, and told me that she guessed I was old enough to finally understand.

We settled ourselves in the main room, the room where we'd had all of our serious discussions as long as I could remember. In fact, my mother had told me once a long time ago that I had actually been born in that room, so she thought it fitting that anything important regarding me also took place in that room. Including, I guessed, _this_ particular conversation.

Five minutes in, I fell off my chair.

The reason?

My father took my mother's hands, looked at me, sighed, took a deep breath and said five of the most unsettling words I'd ever heard.

"I'm not your father, Ewan."

After my parents had both risen in concern and I had assured them I was fine, we moved on.

I demanded to know who my real father was.

My mother's eyes darkened before she hesitatingly replied, "In name and in spirit, he is your father, Ewan. But in blood . . . well . . . that is a story just as long, if not. But I guess . . . if you are ever to live up to who I have tried to make you, you must know."

Then she proceeded to extract a vow of silence from me, which I gave only because my curiosity was way too high to back down now. I was even more curious because of the fact that my father was the one who seemed more nervous, which was surprising to me even more when I learned the truth behind my mother's story.

* * *

When my mother was done, I could barely understand why I had ever thought I was ever truly related to my father.

She had told me everything – the arrival of the Jedi, the negotiations between the two tribes, her capture, her long days of torture, her exile, and finally her marriage to my father. She glossed over most details, but I could understand the taste of fear and the taste of anger that she had felt.

And I easily drew the conclusion she had wanted me to make.

The Jedi had been at fault.

"Why didn't they at least _try_?" I demanded.

My mother snorted. "They wouldn't _dare_ jeopardize their opportunity to bring about peace," she said, sarcasm clear in her tone. "They decided that to rescue me would be to favor the Silima, and so they did not even try. The Padawan even dissuaded my father from mounting a rescue effort on his own."

"Padawan?"

"Apprentice," my father said. "It means apprentice."

"What, they even talk in code?"

My mother smiled sadly. "All the time. . . Being with them, Ewan, is like always verbally jousting. Always. They always had a justification, an excuse on hand, never faltering. And everyone always believed them. To this day, their reputation has only grown, not fallen."

"Who were they?"

"A Master named Unskette, and a boy named Thame Cerulian."

"Do you think they even remember you?"

"I doubt it," she said immediately. "He was so young, and that was nine years ago. I'm betting he's probably been Knighted by now; perhaps he even has an apprentice. But in any case – he always reminded me that he had been on plenty of missions far more exciting than this one, and I've no doubt that his only memory is of his 'success' in the mission."

"It was no success," I said furiously.

My father nodded at my words, and I glanced between them. Now, all of a sudden, my father's devotion to my mother and to my education made sense. He wanted to protect my mother, and help get the justice she wanted.

Now I understood my name too.

"Is this why you called me Ewan?"

"Yes." My mother smiled again, but it was not sad or even dim. It was brilliant, powerful, and almost scary. "You will be my warrior, child. My warrior for justice."

I didn't hesitate when I agreed.

* * *

Of course, the story didn't change everything. I still got teased around the village, still taunted and made fun of for my name and story.

But _I_ had changed.

I knew who I was, and I knew my purpose, and it must have showed.

Only a week after the story came pouring out, something extraordinary happened. I had been having a fight with one of the local bullies and his gang, just running around and jumping from rooftop to rooftop, when everything had changed.

Jumping gave an extreme adrenaline rush. It was awesome, pure wizard.

It was even more so in the knowledge that if one fell, one was dead.

But somehow I never fell.

Even at nine years old, every footstep was sure, snug, and fall-proof. I could have closed my eyes and ran blind and still never fell.

Of course, that still didn't always protect me.

They cornered me on one rooftop that day, and it was ten-to-one. Or at least they tried to. But they underestimated me, as always, and I knew how to fight as well as how to run. I got away, and leapt for the blue warehouse rooftop that I knew would lead back home, where I could ambush them as I pleased –

Only it wasn't there. At the last minute, I remembered that the owners had sold and the new owners had demolished it.

The boys behind me screamed as they fell. Half of them died on contact.

I didn't.

I curled myself into a ball, and as I was yelling at myself how stupid it was to die like this, I remembered my reason for living – I had to get revenge on the Jedi. My hate flooded my entire body, turning my vision red and my taste metallic and sending electrical sparks of strength coursing throughout my entire body.

Then I realized that I wasn't falling.

I was floating, as if placed on a ledge, gently and slowly being lowered to the ground. A few feet off from the ground, I was able to leap with ease.

I was the only one not hurt that day.

But the survivors never bothered me again, and from that day on, I had a new nickname: _Skywalker_.

It was what they had yelled at me as they scrambled and crawled away.

"He walked in the sky!"

"Wizard!"

"No, sky-walker!"

I was more of an outsider than ever after that, but I was a strong one. No one bothered me again.

And my mother and father were prouder than ever. I had proved, my mother said when she learned of the nickname, that I could be her route to justice. I had proved that I had the power to, and the right to take on my own surname and make our own line of descent of which the one to make the Jedi pay would someday emerge.

I never went by any name but Skywalker after that.

Of course, I didn't understand of what power she was speaking of until the day the Jedi came.

* * *

Four years later, the Jedi had come, causing an uproar in the town. Two men – well, one man and one boy, really. But definitely Jedi, for the lightsabers gleaming on their belts were a sure sign of who they were, and they lost no time going straight to our house and demanding to speak to my parents about me.

I, of course, eavesdropped.

"We request the boy be at least tested."

That was the calm voice of the elder. My mother had said he was a Knight, for he carried no Padawan braid, but she said he did not strike her as a Master.

"Request? Or demand?" my mother's voice was sharp.

"You don't want for him the life of a Jedi? It would be in the great fortune of all involved. The Jedi path can offer many rewards."

That was the apprentice – the _Padawan_, as they called. He was brown-haired and brown-eyed, but he seemed just a Padawan. He didn't have the same aura of concentrated power, but rather the hungering desire for it. At least, that was what I sensed from him.

"What rewards?"

"Why are you so against it?" the Master asked.

"Many reasons. He is my only son. I do not want to lose him, and especially not to the Jedi Order. You are not to test him. You are not to _touch_ him. I want you to leave. Now. Ewan will _not_ be a Jedi, and nothing you can say will convince me otherwise."

Silence.

I cheered my mom on, even though she couldn't hear me.

Then:

"He is very strong in the Force."

I knew that 'the Force' was. My mother had explained it to me. The Jedi thought of it as some mystical energy field that bound the lives and destinies as everyone, yet only they were fit to be trained how to wield it.

I called it mumbo-jumbo.

No one decided my destiny but me, and my destiny was to take revenge on the Jedi.

"I know. I have always known. Now _leave_."

Another sigh. "Very well. But if you ever change your mind. . ."

"I will _never _let my son fall into your treacherous grasp," my mother snarled, finally allowing the anger into her voice for the first time. "You think I don't remember you? You obviously do not remember me, do you? My name is Carissa of Silima, and I was once the heiress to the entire tribe. . . Ah, you remember now, don't you, _Padawan Cerulian_?"

"I am a Padawan no longer."

"But still making mistakes, I see," my mother shot back. "I pray for the sake of your own apprentice that he doesn't fall in the same path. . . But I doubt it. I know what happened to me under your _judicious_ and _peacekeeping_ care."

"It was so long enough. Can you not set the grudge apart and decide in the interest of your son, and not you?"

"It _is_ in the interest of my son that I never let you hurt him as you hurt me. Now get out!"

I clenched my fists and had to fight the urge to pummel the Jedi when they emerged, looking all sober and not the least sorry. They had hurt my mother, offended her twice, and hadn't even bothered to consult me before trying to take me from my home. That was one too many insults, and their standing was falling sharply.

"You'd do well to control your hatred, boy." Cerulian turned to me as he spoke. "It will destroy you."

"Says who?" I demanded, rising to my feet.

His apprentice shot to his defense. "Master Yoda, the wisest Jedi of them all."

We stared at each other, trying to force the other into submission. We were of the same age, after all, and I could practically smell the tension between us. A few minutes more, and it could have exploded into a full out war between us right then and there.

Cerulian set his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Calm yourself," he ordered.

Then he turned to me.

"But he is right, boy. Anger and hate lead to suffering, and you have plenty of both. . . I wonder at it, as you are so young. What caused you to have so much pent-up fear and anger? And directed towards the Jedi, I sense? Me in particular?"

"You hurt my mother."

The boy snorted. "Lame excuse. Peace is the greatest goal."

"Not at the expense of those who live it," I retorted. "If there is peace but no one to enjoy it, what is it? And as I recall, that treaty fell into disarray months after you left; it's why the tribes no longer exist. So much for peace."

Cerulian almost smiled. "You argue well, boy. Very articulate. You would have been a fine Jedi. . ."

"Good thing I'm not."

The boy rose again at my subtle threat. His hand fell to his lightsaber hilt. "You'd never get a chance," he warned me.

"_Padawan _Dooku," Cerulian said warningly.

I guessed it was his full title, and I had to snicker. Being put down in front of a rival was never nice – specially when the full title was used as if putting down a child with his surname instead of acknowledging the shame of knowing them by calling them by their first name.

Dooku colored, but didn't stop glaring at me.

"Your hate is dangerous, boy," Cerulian repeated. "And it _will_ destroy you one day."

"Maybe. Or maybe it'll destroy _you_."

Cerulian sighed. "Enough of this. Come, Padawan, let us go. I think we have caused enough disturbances today."

* * *

My anger of the Jedi, inflamed by their treatment of my mother, of me, of my family, crumpled the day I finally met two Jedi.

My hate of the Jedi was born that day, from the ashes of my anger, and I would hate them for the rest of my life, no matter what they did, and I shunned them whenever I could. I would teach my son the same hate, when I judged he was ready to take up the mantel my mother had given me, and I would instruct him to pass it on until we found someone who could turn our hate into revenge.

Anger leads to hate.

The Jedi said it themselves, after all.

* * *

AN: In case anybody noticed, the origin of the surname "Skywalker" was something I did borrow from The Courtship of Princess Leia. The offhand way they had Prince Isolder guess at it sorta stuck in my mind, so I decided to use it for this incident.


	4. Hate Leads to Suffering

**_Hate Leads to Suffering_**

The third part of the saying declares that that hate leads to suffering.

I, Kael Skywalker, son of Kiros Skywalker, grandson of Ewan Skywalker and great-grandson of Carissa of Silima, can vouch for its authenticity.

When I found my daughter unexplainably pregnant after the disappearance of her Jedi "friend", I felt the hate my family felt towards the Jedi for past wrongs generations old – and in turn, that hate lead to my suffering.

* * *

We never knew did know his full name. All he told us was that his proper title was Andur Sunrider, a Jedi Knight and Sentinel who was assigned to this sector.

And yet, after that one meeting, somehow, my daughter found herself unable to leave his side.

He was handsome, yes, dashing and charming and all of that. He had most of the girls falling for him. His Jedi tricks with the Force were applauded at every corner. He was a gentleman, a charmer, and a scoundrel all in one. And for some reason, he never wanted my daughter to leave his side and she found herself inexplicably unable to leave his side.

Andur almost acted like he was . . . almost . . . courting her.

It was a bit alarming. After all, I – like every other Skywalker child – had been briefed about the Jedi, and we all knew they were not allowed to marry or love.

In any case, they claimed spent a lot of time talking. She said he seemed particularly interested in my family's known hatred of the Jedi Order. He seemed to think it was very interesting, although she never was able to pry out a reason why or explanation of any kind. But then again, she wasn't able to pry many answers out of him at all.

They spent over two months together, mainly talking.

We vehemently disapproved. In every way. We wanted to kick the Jedi off this planet completely, but of course that didn't make sense. Behind one Jedi, it was often quoted, came 2000 more. We weren't ready for that – not yet, anyways. The Skywalkers were still waiting.

Who were we waiting for?

Our warrior.

The warrior who would bring the justice sought by the founder of our line, Carissa of Silima, who had given birth to Ewan, the first to carry the Skywalker name. The incident, and that purpose, and that sense of revenge, had been taught to every child born to our line. Of course, there had only been three, really – my grandfather, my father, and then me. But still, that sense lingered in my family. Even my mother was against the Jedi, and she carried not a drop of Skywalker blood; she was only Skywalker in name.

My daughter, for some reason, found it harder to hate the Jedi.

I didn't know why. We had raised her the same way my father, Kiros Skywalker, had raised me and the way my grandfather, Ewan Skywalker, had raised my father – the learning of our history at age nine, the physical and mental drilling about our ways, and the extraction of the vow of silence and revenge that same year before age ten rolled around.

But for some reason, Shmi could never hate anyone, much less the charming Jedi.

So we grit out teeth and waited.

Obviously, Shmi was not the warrior we were waiting for. But then again, if she were, she would bear the name my grandmother Carissa had chosen for our warrior: Anakin.

I wasn't the warrior either.

My father, Kiros, had said that although we all bore variations of the meaning behind "Anakin" we had to wait for the chosen one to appear. We had to dig our heels in and wait, and plan, and then, when we were finally ready and the Jedi at their weakest and least suspecting, then we would attack and bring the Jedi to their knees. And then our vow would be fulfilled, and Princess Carissa, my great-grandmother, would finally be avenged.

But it would take time, planning, and more time.

_That_ was why I did not act against the Jedi yet. He could do whatever he wanted for now; we would get him later.

I didn't realize, though, that line of thinking would only hurt the vow.

* * *

One day, my daughter went out . . . and didn't come back.

It had been, she said, her last day with Andur Sunrider, for he was being recalled to Coruscant to take an apprentice, someone named Palpatine or something like that, and while he would try to visit it would be a long while, so she wished to spend the last day he was here with him. She had the oddest tone of voice while she said it, like she was under an enchantment . . . but of course, I didn't notice until it was far too late.

Three days later, she was found in an ancient pyramid temple, supposedly worshipped by . . . what were they called? . . . oh yes, the Dark Lords of the Sith.

She was unconscious, but her coma confounded the doctors. She was perfectly healthy, they insisted, except, of course, for the fact that she wouldn't wake up. And they said she had _been_ unconscious for at least the three days, but her body showed no signs of starvation or dehydration or anything else.

It was extremely confusing.

Finally, the next day, she woke up. Shmi claimed to have no memory whatever we were talking about; she said she had walked into the Temple, said hello, felt dizzy, closed her eyes . . . and then woke up in the med wing.

I, tentatively, let it slide. She seemed fine. . . And the Jedi was gone. . .

Bad mistake.

Three months later, Shmi went through a vomiting regime that had the entire house confused, and I was praying she didn't have a new and incurable disease and my wife was praying it was just an allergy to the new spicy dish she had made that Shmi had gagged on – and it turned out to be none of these things.

It was a lot worse.

Shmi, the doctors announced, was pregnant. Three months pregnant.

They didn't understand how, they said, for Shmi showed no signs of violation, but the fact itself was undeniable. She was three months pregnant.

We thought of every scenario, but in the end the truth was undeniable. The father _had_ to be the Jedi; Shmi hadn't been around any of the other boys or even expressed any interest in any of the other boys.

I was furious.

She had been raised as a Skywalker, only now to consort with our greatest enemy.

Shmi denied everything. Her look was innocent and angelical and very convincing, but . . . we knew the truth. She couldn't pull the lies when everyone knew she was lying.

* * *

A week later, I had Shmi packed off to the new colony in the Unknown Regions. It was too late to stop the pregnancy – and Shmi wouldn't let us near her anyways. But we were _not_ going to let a child of a Jedi stay in this house. And definitely not let the Jedi come calling as they had before. Shmi wasn't very strong in the Force, after all, but the Jedi had come calling for her too when she was only three months old. It had been a Knight called Dooku and a young boy he had said was his apprentice, Qui-Gon Jinn.

We had refused, obviously, and I had held my tongue, for I recognized the name.

Dooku had been a young Padawan when he had come to claim my father, after all, but our memories were long and the stories carefully maintained. Surprisingly, the Jedi had not come after me; but then again, my father had moved around a lot, setting up his business, so we were harder to track.

But in any case – if Shmi was Force-sensitive, and the father was a Jedi, definitely the baby she carried would be Force-sensitive.

So we sent her out.

When she was gone, we made a thorough search of the house and burned everything that had ever born her name or ownership. Her room was completely emptied, extensively cleaned, and carefully refurbished; her toys, her bed, her clothes were discarded, burnt, and donated; her name was blotted out from the Skywalker tree.

Shmi Skywalker no longer existed in our house.

A day after the ship left, we received a message. The ship had been attacked and taken by pilots. Everyone had been taken prisoner, presumably sold to the slave market, or killed.

We made a feeble search, like every other family, but didn't do much.

I already knew that Shmi was gone.

I had made sure of it.

And she would never ever come back. She had done the inexcusable, the unforgiveable, the worst crime ever. We would not ever look upon her again, or the child she would bear in six months. We would, however, relish the pain that Jedi Andur Sunrider would feel, though, when he came back to claim the child six or so months from now and realized she was gone because of him.

* * *

Six months later, but no Jedi came.

Seventh months passed, and still no Jedi.

Finally, at eight months, doubts were starting to creep into my mind. For some reason, my hatred towards the Jedi was strong, but my hate of my daughter was starting to turn into regret, hesitations, and reproach. Perhaps I should have given her a second chance. Perhaps I had acted too harshly. Perhaps, as my father had always warned against, I had acted too soon to try and cause the Jedi pain.

We contacted the Temple and then we discovered the worst news of all.

Andur Sunrider hadn't existed for centuries, if not more. And no Jedi had been stationed here for generations.

Whoever the man had been, he hadn't been a Jedi.

* * *

I threw myself into a desperate search for my daughter after that.

I had made the worst mistake. Shmi hadn't deserved to be sold into slavery. It was all my fault for jumping to conclusions.

I searched, and searched, and searched. I hired bounty hunters; I posted rewards; I contacted everyone I could begging for help. But the trail had gone cold too long, and Shmi had probably changed hands more than a few times in the eight months that had passed, especially since pregnant slaves couldn't do much. Possibly she had even been separated from the child, or even . . . killed.

I found myself unable to sleep or eat or find any joy in anything anymore.

I had ripped my family apart for a common grudge that wasn't even right in this situation, for the man had not been a Jedi.

I had acted too soon.

I had done the wrong thing.

In grief, my wife miscarried the son she was carrying, and then died soon afterwards herself. I was left in tatters, with a family I had destroyed with a single conclusion that was entirely wrong. My business deteriorated. I lost all joy in life.

But I could never find the strength to ask the Jedi for help.

I couldn't – wouldn't sink that low.

* * *

I never stopped searching for my entire life for Shmi. I did sweeps of the Core, of the Inner Rim, of the Mid-Rim, of the Outer Rim, even of the colonies being established on the fringes of the Unknown Regions. I did everything I could think of.

After three years, I started doing an intense sweep of each area.

I got a few replies, of course, but all bogus, thanks to the enormous reward I had posted.

I began to despair.

Slaves, after all, especially those who were young like Shmi had been, were often the most worked and therefore the first to die.

My self-reproach doubled.

Not only had I hurt Shmi beyond reparation, I had also torn apart my family, and ended any chance of the vow being fulfilled. My wife was dead, and the son she had been carrying was dead with her. I hadn't remarried yet, and my years were running out, and there would be no more Skywalker heirs, at this rate.

The vow was dying.

And it was my fault, again.

By making such a harsh and rushed accusation, I had irrevocably damaged the probability of the vow being carried out – the vow I had sworn to fulfill at all costs. Our vow for revenge against the Jedi for what they had done to my great-grandmother, Princess Carissa. Our vow that was now going to die with me because there was no way my daughter, who could never hate the Jedi and certainly if anything would raise her child – if they were still alive in the first place – to hate me and the vow for destroying her life.

No, I had failed in my duty – as a son of the Skywalker line, and as Shmi's father.

I swept the Mid-Rim.

A few more reports, and even a generous financial offer to help me carry on – but no Shmi.

Finally, my search caught notice of the Jedi.

They offered.

It was a woman who offered, one who reminded me a lot of Shmi, even though she was Noorian, not human, for she had the same dark hair, same quiet yet willful attitude, and same unsettling way of glancing at someone, as if she could peer in your very soul.

"We could help you find her, Mr. Skywalker."

She said her name was Tahl.

She didn't introduce herself as a Jedi; just, she said, as a compassionate fellow citizen of the galaxy, and someone who could actually possibly make a difference.

But my pride, my fear, my anger, and my hate all lead to the obvious answer.

"I'm sorry. But no. This, I must do for myself."

"You hate me."

I stopped, startled. My father had mentioned the Jedi Cerulian being able to detect his anger and hate for the Jedi, but it had never happened to me before, and it _was_ startling to have your emotions detected by someone who barely knew you.

"And you hate my Order. Is that why you refuse?"

I didn't deign her with an answer.

But as I left, she called out a single, haunting phrase that I never forgot: "Hate leads to suffering, Mr. Skywalker. I hope that you can resolve your hate, and let it go one day."

The next day, I set out for the Outer Rim. There had been a tentative match there – a woman slave and a baby boy, somewhere there, and a mention of the Skywalker name. I wasn't too hopeful, but it was better than nothing. I had to search out every lead if I was to find Shmi, or at least manage to give her remains a proper burial and, if I was lucky, find and arrange a suitable living for the baby she'd have left behind.

I never made it.

During the hyperspace jump, there was some sort of engine failure, and the entire ship exploded, killing everyone.

* * *

My hate of the Jedi, instilled by my father and recounted in the stories he had passed to me, was lost the day we found out the truth about the man who called himself "Andur Sunrider" – that he wasn't a Jedi.

My suffering was born that same day, from the ashes of my hate, and it would haunt me until the day I died in the fiery explosion. I had condemned everything I had known and loved to suffering for a foolish mistake, and at the same time destroyed any chance of the vow we had all taken from coming to fruition, for I was dead, my daughter was lost, and whatever child she bore would have no recollection without a mother or father to pass the vow on.

Hate leads to suffering.

The Jedi said it themselves, after all.


	5. Epilogue

**_Epilogue_**

Fear, anger, hate, and suffering – they all stem from love. Even the absence of love can trigger fear, and therefore cause the rest of the cycle. For the absence of love leads to fear, and fear leads to anger, and anger leads to hate, and hate leads to suffering, and suffering leads to fear, and fear leads to anger, and anger leads to hate, and hate leads to suffering, and . . .

And so the cycle continues.

But sometimes, if one is lucky, the cycle can be broken the same thing that started it.

Love.

I, Carissa of Silima, am not lying when I said that I hated the Jedi with every fiber of my mind, every molecule of my body, every speck of my soul.

I hated them, and I passed on that hate to my son, Ewan. In a way, I punished him for everything I could not punish the Jedi, for Ewan was weak and the Jedi were strong, and I reasoned that I had to prepare him to hate the Jedi as I did.

Fortunately or unfortunately, I succeeded.

By the time my son was old enough to stand on his own, my husband was dead, and I wasn't that far from death myself. He left us to make his way in life, to pave his own path, and to explore the Outer Rim territories and the Unknown Regions, and I never saw him again. I do not know if he came to my funeral when I died shortly afterwards.

But Ewan raised his family as I had always hoped he would.

Ewan made his life, just as my husband had predicted, with the flair that came with his christened last name – Skywalker. And he _did_ walk the sky. Perhaps the Force guided him, but his business revolutionized air and space transport and he always walked away with the better end of the deal.

And his family carried the hate that had burned for so long.

His son, Kiros, was Force-sensitive as well, after all, but when the Jedi came calling, Ewan sent them packing. He swore, and his wife swore, and his son in turn swore that no child of the Skywalker line would ever bear the title of a Jedi.

And so we avoided them.

Ewan died wealthy, and Kiros inherited the business. He managed it well, stabilized it, made the name of the business known, respected, powerful. My great-grandson, Kael, in turn, expanded the business beyond just the Mid-Rim circles. Soon his technology was being used for fancy celebrations on Coruscant as well as dangerous excursions in the Outer Rim. All of them were Force-sensitive, but none even bothered to consider sending one of the Skywalker clan to join the Jedi Order.

But the true triumph, I suppose, came with the dealings of my great-great grandson.

His daughter, Shmi, became friendly with a Jedi who, at the time, was stationed in the sector as a . . . well, a watchman, I suppose. There were about 2,000 other Jedi stationed around the galaxy in the same positions in other sectors.

Shmi was Force-sensitive, just not too strong, but it was enough to catch the Jedi's eye.

They were friends, about the same age, shared meals, talked, laughed, and in general were friendly. They had met when she had one day fallen asleep . . . and not woken up. Frantically, her parents had searched for a cure – and unfortunately, the Jedi had been the one to supply it, waking her with a simple application of the Force. And that initial meeting had turned, somehow, into friendship.

My great-great grandson disapproved, of course, but could not do anything.

Not with the Jedi Order watching.

The Jedi, of course, did not know of why the Skywalker line disapproved so vehemently of the idea of sending one of their own to join the Order, for Thame Cerulian, I guessed, had never sensed how my anger had boiled over – or how I was so intimately connected to the Skywalkers. But then again, he was dead long before my great-great grandson's time, and I doubted he had confided anything to Dooku, who in a way was _his_ son, just as Ewan was mine.

But nevertheless, they kept a close eye on the Skywalkers.

Then, only three months after Shmi and the Jedi had become friendly, the Jedi was recalled to Coruscant. He was to take an apprentice. And he was not to return, ever. A new Sentinel was being assigned to the sector.

Shmi, understandably, was devastated, and not two days after the Jedi left she collapsed.

The doctors were at a loss to explain it – Shmi was simply in a coma, and could not be roused, but there seemed to be no cause or cure. There was nothing to be done except do a full examination, to which her parents quickly agreed . . . only the explanation that came then was everything to be undesired.

Shmi was pregnant.

No one could explain how, or why, or who was the father, but my great-great grandson thought he knew.

He had demanded that Shmi explain – or confess, as he desired – immediately as to the identity of the father the second she woke. To his anger, she denied everything. All she could tell them was that she had just woken out of a daze of sorts . . . a daze that the Jedi's presence had cast upon her, and that when they had first met, cold had crept across her body and pain had flared in her womb, and yet . . . somehow, for some reason, she had been bewitched in becoming friends with him all the same.

To my great-great grandson, that was all he needed.

In his hatred for the Jedi, the deed that needed to be done was clear. Shmi's child was clearly going to be Force-sensitive, and there was no doubt that if a Jedi had sired the child, he would come back for him or her – and not be said no to this time.

A perfect trap, my great-great grandson knew, but with one tiny flaw.

After all, if the Jedi couldn't find Shmi, he couldn't find her child, and besides . . . no child of Skywalker line was going to be a Jedi, and no one of the Skywalker clan was going to be associated with the Jedi, even the brat of one.

A week later, my great-great grandson arranged for Shmi to be sent to a new colony being built on the edge the Unknown Regions.

She never made it there.

A search effort lasted a month, but found no trace of Shmi or the pirates that had attacked the ship and taken her. The search ended then, and Shmi's funeral was held for the public; but in the confines of the family, everything Shmi had ever owned – including her place on the family tree – was burned.

Shmi gave birth not long afterwards, and she called her son "Anakin". It was the name, she had repeatedly been told from childhood, that the ancestress of the Skywalker line had wished would be bestowed upon the one that would change the universe.

Of course, she had also been told that that child would fulfill that duty by destroying the Jedi.

But Shmi hoped that her child would learn compassion over revenge, replace despair with hope, and hold love dearer than hate.

Change, she truly believed, her Anakin would bring to the universe, yes – only change for the better, not for the worse as the ancestress had wished for.

Her family never saw her again, or her son, and to their surprise, the Jedi that they believed had sired Shmi's child never returned. In fact, when they tried to search him out to flaunt what had been done, they found that he had died . . . over a hundred years ago.

The man who had sired the child was not a Jedi.

Horrified, my great-great grandson sought Shmi out for the rest of his days, but he had done his work too well. He never found her, and died in grief and anguish when the ship he was traveling in for one last search effort in the Unknown Regions exploded and killed him.

Shmi never knew, of course, but perhaps the Force guided her in naming the son she bore the name I had chosen generations ago: Anakin.

Anakin, the chosen one, the warrior, the epitome of the Skywalker line.

No one ever realized, of course, that Anakin had no father.

The Jedi Knight, the one who had called himself "Andur Skywalker", had actually been a Sith Lord called Darth Plagueis. He had sired the boy not through normal means but through influencing the Force and the midi-chlorians to bring about life in a virgin womb in a barren land of slavery and drudgery.

In many ways, Anakin Skywalker was the miracle of our line.

And of course, he did manage to fulfill the vow all my sons had sworn.

Shmi never let the boy know a whisper about the true nature of the origin of the Skywalker family. He knew nothing about me, about the vow, or about why he had grown up in slavery. She kept him away from fear, away from anger, and away from hate. She tried, to the best of her ability, only to let Anakin know love, the very opposite of everything her family – _my_ line, the Skywalker line – had taught her, her father, and her grandfather before her.

She succeeded.

But she also failed.

The boy loved her so much that it _caused_ him to feel fear, anger, and hate concerning her fate.

In the most ironic and twisted way, I suppose, Shmi and I tried our best to defeat each other's purpose only to fulfill it.

Shmi tried her best to defeat my vow of revenge by ensuring her son saw neither hair nor hide about it.

Yet it would be her son, Anakin Skywalker, who would be _my_ chosen one, for it would be Anakin Skywalker who would carry out my vow by not just _hurting_ the Jedi – he would go so far that he would actually _destroy_ them. With the fulfillment of Order 66, Anakin Skywalker finally managed to carry out my vow by slaughtering the entire Jedi Temple and then roaming the galaxy killing all the rest of the Jedi who survived Order 66 over the years.

At the same time, though, he defeated me through Shmi.

For it was her memory that allowed him to finally turn against Darth Sidious and save his son, allowing for the Jedi Order to be revived.

And with that . . . the cycle was broken.

I provided the fear, thanks to Master Unskette and Thame Cerulian.

Ewan provided the anger, thanks to Thame Cerulian and Dooku.

Kael provided the suffering, thanks to a certain Darth Plagueis and Dooku and Qui-Gon Jinn.

And Shmi provided the love that broke the entire cycle altogether, thanks to Qui-Gon Jinn and Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Quite a cycle, it was, I guess.

And we proved the Jedi saying true. Much as I hate them, I have to admit that it did work. My fear lead to Ewan's anger which lead to Kael's hate which lead to Shmi's suffering that lead to Anakin's final fatal strike against the Jedi Order.

But in a way, I guess, Shmi is really the last one standing. She suffered the most, yes, but she also reaped the most.

Her son destroyed the Jedi Order that, from Unskette to Obi-Wan Kenobi, had destroyed me. But by doing so, he allowed for the rise of a new Order – a better Order, in fact.

_Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering._

The Jedi were right about that bit. I wasn't even a Jedi, but it happened to me, and it happened to all those who followed my line, the Skywalker line.

But Shmi was right to.

She was the one who asked, _And what does love do?_

And she provided the answer.

Love conquers, love outlasts, and love shines brighter than the very stars.

My name was Carissa of Silima, and I was the great-great-great grandmother of the worst enemy and greatest savior of the Jedi Order ever, perhaps, to exist in the entire universe – Anakin Skywalker. It was through my existence and my hatred for the Jedi Order that the Skywalker line began.

This was my story, and the story of my line – the Skywalker line – still continues.

Perhaps it will never end.

_That_ will be my legacy, even though no one will ever remember my name or how the Skywalker name came to be.

**_THE END_**


End file.
